Sway

by Amber McRee Turner

  My head and my heart and my gut disagreed on the correct answer to the question. My head knew that I was totally weirded out by new places, new people, and new dad all at the same time. My gut felt pretty excited by it all. And my heart felt like this must be, for whatever unknown reason, something Dad really needed to do. Mom once told me that, in a rescue situation, it is important for the grown-ups to get okay first, so they can then help the kids.

  “I’ll take your silence as a no,” he said. “Who am I kidding thinking I can impress you with that wacky getup, huh?”

  “It’s just that it was kind of a surprise, I guess,” I said. “I mean, have you done all that before?”

  “I think it’s pretty obvious I haven’t,” he said. “So maybe at the next stop we’ll tone the act down a bit.”

  I took a long slurp on my Coke, assured that Dad was still Dad, that I had managed to avoid totally crushing his feelings, and soon I would find out more about this mysterious thing called Sway. Surprisingly, my head, my gut, and my heart agreed that for the moment, things were somewhat okay.

  “We never saw what the soap did for the Michelangelo kid,” I said.

  “You know, you’re right,” said Dad. “But I have heard that sometimes it may take a while for the Sway to have an effect.”

  Dad and I both chomped on some ice for a minute.

  “So does Mom know about all this?” I said.

  “Well, no, not so much.”

  “How come?”

  “I guess I didn’t want our magical brand of cleanup to totally overshadow the cleanup work that she’s done, you know? It just didn’t seem right. I thought it could have its debut as a special me-and-you thing, no?”

  “But you said it was a family secret.”

  “I said it was a Nordenhauer family secret.”

  “Mom’s a Nordenhauer,” I said.

  Dad sure did seem to forget that fact. Like he needed to write it on his hand or something.

  “Cass, we’re not calling her.”

  I swallowed an ice cube whole and clenched my jaw from the instant brain freeze.

  “But…”

  “Case closed,” he said.

  Dad stepped down out of The Roast and waved the Sup ’n’ Go manager over. While he apologized for the ding in their roof and asked permission to camp in their lot for the night, I retired to my room, where I checked on the cell phone in the bottom of the beauty box and promised myself I’d use it as soon as I was able to buy more minutes. After lint-rolling glitter and fish crumbles from my shirt, plus some leftover Chex Mix bits from my bed, I found the first blank page that hadn’t been wrecked in my Book of In-Betweens and noodled a yellow-andgreen-striped soap sliver with big ears, a beard, and glasses. Next to it, I drew a brown suitcase with MBM scribbled across in gold.

  “Hey, Dad!” I said through my curtain. “What’s the M. B. stand for?”

  “Well, I sure know what it doesn’t stand for,” he said. “Definitely not Muchos Boring.”

  I added a top hat to the sliver.

  “And certainly not Mega Bland,” Dad added.

  Perhaps not Muchos Boring, I thought. But I wasn’t ruling out Mysterious Buffoon just yet.

  At sunup the next day, I jerked my curtain open so hard my knuckles cracked on the wall. The first sight to greet me was those big green glasses rocking back and forth on a cord looped around the rearview mirror. Already wearing his M. B. McClean pants and jacket, my dad was in mid-hoist through the driver’s door with a top hat full of goodies.

  “You tossed and turned something fierce last night,” he said, setting a piece of lumpy candy the size of a book on the dash. “I thought you might need some protein.”

  I wondered even how to begin to eat such a thing, when, with a whack!, he chopped the candy with his hand, sending a few bits sticking to the windshield. I noticed that the sugar-speckled view beyond was not the Sup ’n’ Go. Instead, we were parked across the way from a little log cabin–style store with a long row of rocking chairs along the front porch. It was just us and two camouflage-painted pickup trucks in the gravel parking lot, and all around the cabin were trees covered in kudzu vines that, if you stared long enough, appeared to have grown into giant animal shapes.

  “Where are we?” I asked.

  “The other side of Mississippi,” Dad said. “My sleep was fitful last night too, so I got us a head start toward our second work stop.”

  I was pretty sure that meant we were even farther from Florida.

  “Here’s to the breakfast of champions!” he said, handing me a shard of brownish candy. “The lady in the store says they make enough Nutty Brittle each year to stretch all the way to Tennessee.”

  Nutty. Brittle. Sounded like a good description of my dad and me.

  “Hey, you mind if I ask you something?” Dad asked. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want.”

  “Sure,” I said. “But only if we can trade questions. And if I go first.”

  “Go on,” he said.

  “When Mom first became a storm rescuer, why didn’t you become one too?”

  Dad slumped a little shorter in his seat. “Because sometimes when someone chooses a job in which that someone will take off on a moment’s notice, the other someone has to stay behind and be ground control. But don’t sell your old dad short, now.” He paused and smiled. “Once, when I was a boy, I caught a frog by its hind leg to save it from being flushed down the toilet.”

  “I guess that could maybe count,” I said.

  “Until he slicked out of my fingers and was slurped away.”

  “Oh.”

  I had an inkling to think poorly of Dad for this, until I remembered some of my own failed rescue attempts. Most notably, the frozen butterfly I tried to thaw back to life with a birthday candle when I was eight.

  “Seriously, though, Cass,” he said. “Have you even begun to consider what we have here? I mean, have you thought about the things that we can do with Sway?”

  “You mean like rescue?”

  “Who knows?”

  Dad dug some brittle from his back teeth.

  “Now, how about that question I was promised?” he said. “Is it my turn?”

  I wanted to tell him, Game over. That was two questions already, but that didn’t seem fair.

  “Go ahead.”

  “What all did your mom really say to you on the phone the other night?”

  I couldn’t believe he’d mentioned Mom. It made me glad I’d allowed one more question.

  “I don’t know. Just that she loves us and stuff.”

  His eyes perked up some, despite his voice remaining flat. “Did she ask to talk to me?”

  “That’s an extra question,” I said, glancing down at my knees. Mom had done no such thing, but Dad sure didn’t have to know that right then.

  “Okay, I get it,” he said. “Let’s just head on up yonder dirt road a bit and find our next stop.”

  “Without a shoe?”

  Busted, I thought. Breaking his own rule already.

  “I dig your catch-on-itude, my friend,” he said. “But have you a look-see in that direction.”

  I looked out the passenger side window and spotted something lying heavy in the dirt on the road that ran beside the cabin. But it sure didn’t strike me as shoe-ish.

  My dad stood and slid the Reacher out from the crevice between his seat and the console like it was a sword.

  “Feeling lucky?” he asked, reaching so hard to slide open the sunroof, I saw the seam in the armpit of his jacket strain.

  Dad stood on tiptoe at the edge of the driver’s seat and put the Reacher up through there like an antenna. He cast it out and reeled it back in, over and over, until he was near knocked silly from what he hooked on the fifth try. Then he freed the weighty object from the hook and held it in front of his face like a rusty smile. It was a horseshoe.

  “Like catching shoes in a barrel,” he said, tossing it across The Roast and landing it right in the hole. “
Now, let’s go see where that horse was headed.”

  Dad cranked up The Roast and we drove up that very dirt road, well into a thick forest of cedar trees, which scratched along the roof of the RV. Within just minutes we found a cleared-out place in the woods where what seemed like a hundred pickup trucks were parked every which way. We stopped just past a bearded man in a gray uniform with gold buttons. He was tapping a sign into the mud.

  JUNE 8

  BATTLE OF HANOVER’S BLUFF

  CIVIL WAR REENACTMENT

  ADULTS $5

  CHILDREN UNDER TWELVE $2

  INFANTS FREE

  BATTLE BEGINS PROMPTLY AT 11:00 A.M.

  The man stooped to pick up a crumpled fast food bag, and tossed it into a garbage can shaped like an owl.

  “I guess even a Confederate general’s got to multi-task,” Dad said with a wink.

  “What’s a reenactment?” I said, finding the word difficult to even say.

  “It’s when a bunch of folks get together and act out an old battle,” said Dad. “Kind of like a play of sorts.”

  “But didn’t the Civil War split up America and make people fight against their own families? Why would you want to reenact something terrible as that?”

  “Well, I’ve personally never tried it,” he said. “But I guess what it means to them is keeping the stories of their ancestors alive, be they tragic or heroic, by reliving them. It’s their way of making those stories a part of themselves.”

  Dad pried bits of brittle off the windshield. “But what it means to us is an opportunity to dazzle some folks with our inventory.”

  “You think these people are going to want old soaps?”

  “Cass, this here is a captive audience of people who have a deep appreciation of all things authentic. Our gift ought to be more than welcome here.” Something in his voice sounded like he was trying to convince himself as well as me.

  A few more brass-buttoned soldiers passed in front of The Roast.

  “Plus, it looks likes these folks are no strangers to grown-ups playing dress-up.” Dad sucked in hard to button his jacket. “And this makes me look a tad historical, no?”

  The taddest of tads, I thought, giving him a nod.

  Dad gathered up the rest of his green-and-yellow ensemble while I slipped on my tank top, a T-shirt, and some cutoffs.

  “I’m thinking we scale back a little on the setup today, out of respect to our unique audience,” he said. “What do you think? Perhaps we should leave the banner behind?”

  “Yeah, maybe,” I said, finding myself wondering what on earth he planned to rhyme with Civil War.

  “Let’s get a move on,” he said. “I bet they’re already setting up in there.”

  We finished getting dressed and then gathered the wagon, suitcase, tambourine, and fold-up table. It made for a very slow walk across the woods having to yank the loaded wagon free from the forest thicket, and Dad had to help me again and again. When we finally reached the huge clearing that was to be the battle site, we stopped next to some ladies laying out sandwiches and drinks on a huge quilt.

  “Morning, ladies,” Dad said with a bow. “Mind if my partner and I take a few of those waters off your hands?”

  “Be our guests,” said one of them.

  The women all wore poof-sleeve dresses with tiny waists and long hoopy skirts, one color for every lady. Beyond them, a crowd of men in faded blue and worn gray milled around the big clearing, many on foot, some on horses. I realized I’d seen these people in my prayer before, except for this time, they were cleaning guns, sharpening swords, and shining boots. They looked like a page torn from my fourth-grade history book.

  “You mind being the wagon-filler?” Dad said.

  That I didn’t mind. I was just glad not to be assigned tambourine duty again.

  Dad unfolded our table and popped open the MBM suitcase, right between a bigger table of flyers about future Civil War reenactments and a display of dirty, dented relics from various battlegrounds. As I emptied eight bottled waters into the wagon, a few of the soldiers broke away from their duties and made their way toward us. Dad was already sweating hard, maybe from the heat, or maybe from the men with guns and knives headed in our direction.

  “Gentlemen in blue and gentlefolk in gray,” he greeted them. “The name’s M. B. McClean. This here’s my daughter-turned-partner, Cass.”

  The men tipped their hats at me.

  “Do forgive the intrusion, if you would, but Cass and I have a suitcase full of something that folks such as yourselves might find more than a little remarkable.”

  People on either side of us stopped setting up their displays to have a listen.

  “You see, we have in this very case a genuine and rare collection of soap slivers used by and passed down by heroes of old!” Dad launched into a medium-quietish version of his speech.

  The man with the most medals on his uniform scratched his head.

  “For just a quick wash in our wagon with one of these soaps, a part of their greatness can magically become your own,” Dad added, tugging at his collar.

  I saw him shove the tambourine under the table with his foot. That’s when I wondered if we would ever make it out of those woods, or if we’d end up in some haul-theweirdos-off-to-jail reenactment.

  “And did we mention it’s all free?” Dad’s voice trailed off, and it looked like he might very well melt into a pool of nerves and sweat, when a man with a waxy mustache and a shiny Confederate States belt buckle spoke up from among the silent troops.

  “You know, I heard tell of something like this before,” he said. “Some sort of Indian legend about wearing the headpiece of a warrior and feeling his strength.…But that might very well be a bunch of hoo-ha.”

  “Well, we’ve got a hundred shades of military heroism represented in this suitcase, sir,” Dad said. “A whole mess of valor, strength, and nobility all literally at your fingertips. It can’t hurt to try one, right?”

  The man adjusted his holster and put both hands on his hips. “What did you say your name was, fella?” he asked.

  “M. B. McClean, sir. And Cass.”

  “Honorary Captain M. B. McClean and Little Miss Cass,” the man said, “I believe I speak for my men as well as for the enemy in saying we are a mite intrigued by what you have to offer.”

  A few of the troops nodded in agreement. Dad responded with some sort of salute, looking like a great glob of worry had slid right off him.

  Then the man took out a brassy pocket watch and stared at it thoughtfully. “The battle begins in fifty-three minutes.” His voice rose above us all. “You’ve got that long to do your thing, Mr. McClean.”

  “Well, let’s waste no time, then,” said Dad. “Gather ’round!”

  A few representatives from the group stepped forward to take a closer look.

  “First off, let me tell you about a couple little gems we have in here,” he said, shuffling through the case and lifting high two tiny white soap slivers. “These here represent none other than Ulysses S. Grant and Stonewall Jackson.

  “As you folks well know, Grant was a celebrated Union war hero and eighteenth president of our own United States. But did you know this?” he added. “Did you know that in the heat of battle, when his officers were ready to give up, Grant never lost his composure? In fact, his nerves of steel were a marvel to all around him. They say he could write orders while shells burst all around him and never even flinch.”

  The men in navy blue had begun removing their gloves and tucking them into their belts. Then Dad said something that moved the gray men just as much.

  “And speaking of never flinching,” he said. “Let’s not forget General Stonewall Jackson, bold Confederate commander, who earned his nickname at the Battle of Bull Run for sitting calmly on his horse, staying firm and undaunted like a stone wall throughout the fight.”

  In an instant, the people crowded around both of us so tight, they bumped and sloshed our water. I had to pull the wagon to safety a
s Dad began a roll call of slivers thumbtacked to the inside of the suitcase lid. And thus began mine and Dad’s work at the Battle of Hanover’s Bluff. Of course, Ulysses and Stonewall were the first two soaps to be used up. After that went a wash with Napoleon Bonaparte, the French emperor who was hailed as a military genius. Then someone scrubbed with a Samuel Middleton, the only black officer in the American Revolutionary War. There was even a wash with John Wayne, famous movie star, horse rider, and all-around tough guy. As I led man after man to the water wagon for his turn, I noticed a boy slowly make his way to the front of the line. He was a droopy-shoulder kid who looked to be about my age. He had a pair of drumsticks in the pocket of his cargo shorts and a spotted puppy on a leash.

  “Well hello, young man,” said Dad. “What can we do for you today?”

  “Nothing,” said the boy, looking over the brown suitcase with a sulky frown on his face. “I don’t want any old soap. I just wanted to see what all the commotion was about.”

  “Do you have a job in this here battle?” said Dad.

  “No, I mainly just stand over there and wait for my dad to die and come back to life.”

  “Do you really play the drums?” I asked him.

  “Whenever I can,” he said.

  “Well, young man, want it or not, I do have something that would be perfect for you,” said Dad, rummaging through the collection and finding a green soap marked TH.

  “Tommy Hubler was rumored to be the youngest member of the Union Army,” he explained. “A fine, brave drummer boy he was, alerting troops of their movement orders, sounding retreat in the midst of heavy enemy fire, and standing by ready to lay down the drum and help an injured man if necessary.”

  “Um, no thanks,” said the boy. The puppy whimpered and squirmed.

  “You sure? My assistant can hold your pup while you wash,” Dad said.

  “You mean this stuff really works?” the boy whispered to me. Both he and Dad waited for my response. In place of an answer, I just did a little shrug-nod.

  “Hold up,” Dad said, finding yet another soap, this one with just an S on it. “And speaking of that there pup, who could forget Stubby, possibly the bravest-ever soldier dog, who accompanied soldiers in seventeen battles during World War I, providing comfort, companionship, and the occasional biting of an enemy behind.”